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Napoleon double-checked the address as he arrived at what seemed to be an empty maintenance garage. Odd… Illya was supposed to have been undercover here… So where was he?
“Open Channel D,” he murmured into his communicator. “Illya, where are you?”
He gave a start—and a rather undignified yelp—as a hand reached out from under one of the two parked cars and grabbed his ankle.
“Really, Napoleon?”
“…I don’t often get grabbed by phantom hands in the middle of dark garages,” Napoleon informed him.
The flat scooter that Illya had been resting on now scooted out from under the car to give Napoleon an exasperated look.
“You’re surprisingly facetious,” he said. “Tell me, as I am filthy-looking as I think I am?”
“…A little bit,” Napoleon admitted. “But it’s a good look on you—far, far better than it would look on me.”
“You would say that,” Illya muttered. “It’s not that I mind your vanity, of course, but you were very quick to have me be the one to go undercover as a… oh, what is it you Americans call them? An oil ape?”
“…Grease monkey.”
“Da. That. You were in no rush to be one. The things you make me do…”
“I may not have chosen to take this particular role, but it doesn’t mean that I couldn’t,” Napoleon informed him.
Illya let out a quiet scoff.
“I can prove it—another time, of course,” Napoleon insisted.
“Of course,” Illya returned, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I presume you didn’t come to gawk and that you’re actually here to find out if I’ve observed anything.”
“That would be why I’m here, yes,” Napoleon agreed.
“Some THRUSH operatives have been by to have their cars worked on—and perhaps the one and only benefit to my being absolutely covered in engine oil is that they failed to recognize me and continued with their prattling,” Illya said. “There is interest in what is rumored to have been a case of successful time travel that occurred out in California approximately seven years ago.”
“Just like we’d heard. And this is only on everyone’s radars now… why?” Napoleon asked.
“The man responsible for it was good at keeping it secret; however, it came to light in the last year after his manor was destroyed in a fire—it is believed he has gone slightly mad,” Illya informed him. “THRUSH isn’t sure that he is worth the effort—at least not at this point in time.”
“And what do you believe?” Napoleon asked.
“…I believe he is merely an eccentric who may have feigned madness in order to keep his secrets,” Illya stated. “As much as I would like to pursue this case, it is, ultimately, up to Mr. Waverly to decide what we do.”
“Very true,” Napoleon sighed. “Well, I’ll let him know. Keep up the good work and let me know if you find out anything more.”
“I shall,” Illya promised.
Napoleon nodded and headed out, but paused at the door and looked back.
“By the way, what are the chances of my getting an oil change later?”
Illya responded with an icy glare, and Napoleon grinned as he left, dodging a greasy cleaning rag on his way out.